Ante Merediem
by Appointment
Summary: Ron and Hermione share a moment alone in the wee hours of the morning.   Placed within the Deathly Hallows timeline. One-shot.


Her long hair swirled and danced in the wind while she sat, like the dizzying bronze corkscrews of leaves around them. Her hazel eyes sparkled as she looked over at him, catching the glare of the sun. He approached her with silenced footsteps, swimming in the moment.

Sitting down next to her, not saying a word, but he did not bother looking out to watch the leaves tumble through the wind. Hermione looked terribly beautiful in the pale light of dawn.

"Why're you up so early?" she said softly, without negating her decision to watch the trees whisper in the breeze. It felt like coals were sitting in his chest, burning on and on.

"I couldn't sleep," He said simply, his ginger fringe hindering his vision. "There's a bit of something on my mind." She turned to him, finally, looking at him with a salient hint of longing.

Yet, Ron was looking down at his large feet. "Me too." She replied, still quiet. "I'm terrified," he admitted, dismally. "Positively terrified that I'll come back to nothing, that I'll hear their names on that radio."

His tired blue eyes remained glued to his feet. Around them, the forest was spectral. Even the wind made no sound, and they could almost hear Harry snoring from the tent.

"_I'm also terrified that you'll never love me, because I'm such a senseless git." _Ron did not dare say these words out loud, the last thing he would like to hear was a pitiful attempt at stifling laughter, and the crunch of leaves as Hermione walked away, unable to take him seriously.

And she looked at him with a sideways glance, her loneliness feeling like a companion, as sitting next to Ron like this, unable to say what she so desperately needed to, it felt like a steady stream of sand through my fingers.

Those lovely blue eyes, that she had once known to be the reflection of the sky, had grown to a listless navy. Even as they aged with mentality, she had never stopped loving the way they brought her back to tree-climbing youth, a child trying to get closer and closer to the interminably cerulean sky.

"Ronald?" she said, delicately. She tried her best not to let her teeth chatter brashly, even though the currents of air carried a terse wintriness. He looked over at her, to let her know he was listening. He did not dare open his mouth, because he feared he was about to say what he his mind would call unrequited.

She began to inhale, exhale regularly, and she had wanted to say something that was buried deep down. She could feel it nettling her skin, making it frozen to the world about her, as if her own body had fallen asleep with mind still integral.

Like magic had been calling her into line, asking her to let slack of her body so that it could enthrall her, something like she had imagined the Imperius Curse to be. However, she felt she would rather be cursed than be precluded.

He felt like his heart was about to claw its way up his throat, and the very thought of it made him gag silently. He was about to act, and he lacked a clue as to why. "I love you." said a hazy voice, which had the distinct air of reproach on the last moments of the phrase.

At twelve years old, Ron had not told Hermione how he felt.

At thirteen years old, Hermione had not told Ron how she felt.

At fourteen years old, Hermione used Viktor Krum to make Ron jealous, vice versa with his infatuation towards Fleur Delacour.

At fifteen years old, Ron had still not told Hermione how he felt.

At sixteen years old, Ron had snogged Lavender Brown, and Cormac McLaggen fancied Hermione. And they had still loved each other.

And here, at seventeen, they sat, barely inches apart, with only words between them.

He knew she was different right from the beginning, that _she'd be different_ to him, ever since the first day on the train, when she came right up with her baffling smile and endless criticism.

She knew he was different, from that day on, when his magic was oh so satisfactory, yet his modesty and irrevocable conviction brought a smile to her lips.

"I love you too," she said, faintly. "So much." He raised his calloused, rough hand up to her soft cheek, a feeling of tree bark on silk. Hermione's eyes hid behind her fluttering lashes at the touch of his hand, just as softly angled her face towards his.

Their lips touched as the last of the sun uncovers itself from the horizon, shining through the barren trees that were admonishing to winter.


End file.
